Within Line of Sight of the Garden

T-packs of Tecate

On bodega summer porches

Strumming ukuleles in the hundred plus heat

Mason jars of slickened vodka

Poured from lowshelf plastic bottles

Through pyrex tubes of charcoal

In the basement hid below

The Tecate tastes of lettuce

The vodka tastes of silver

All twisted by the salty rim

Of sweltered summer lips

Sometimes there was a bourbon

Or overpriced tequila

Or plastic scent of rock cocaine

When the buses cracked their doors

And on the breezeless ether

Your voice rang out and echo’d

In the cities grimey theater

They heard you 6 blocks away

And creeping in from dust clouds

Those ticket puncher haboobs

The sound of curse filled ballads

Ushered strangers to their seats

Some would bring a cello

Or a rag wrapped plastic hanger

A sense of rhythm foreign

a harmonica (wrong key)

A pepperoni pizza

So greasy it ran for office

And a pair of dancing waitresses

Who sang along our songs

I in one drunken evening

Thought “I wish you were my father”

But I kept my disappointment 

Entirely to myself

we drank brown bottle IPAs

And sang the songs of bullfrogs

Then walked to trucks and bicycles

And vanished into night.

Now there stands no homestead

The bodega turned to rubble

Replaced by highrise condos

Urban renewal priced dreams

All that lasts of wednesdays

Is a single seafoam tile

From the bathroom of the time before

Framed and on my wall.

Kevin M. Flanagan is a writer, performer, and artist living in Phoenix, Arizona. When Kevin was three years old, he pushed a sheet metal screw up his nose. It was there for some time before being discovered, and required a trip to the emergency room to remove. This is Kevin’s earliest memory. His work recently featured in the Exposition Review. He can be reached at kevinmflanagan.com. Follow them on Twitter @kevindischord

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